Page 3 of Spotlight Hearts

“Kai! Luca! Over here!”

Cameras swing like weapons. I step up to the small platform they’ve set up, Luca right behind me. He ignored my command to get a shower and is still in stage makeup—smoky liner, lips glossy—and he looks infuriatingly good under the lights. As though he was born for this. Not to mention, the scent of his sweat and cologne mixing is going to my head.

Before I can brace, his arm slides around my shoulders. Casual. Possessive. The weight of it is warm, solid, and I hate how my body doesn’t flinch away. The reporters eat it up—phones tilt higher, questions fire faster.

“Kai, how do you feel about the Kuca edits blowing up tonight?”

“Luca, was that almost-kiss planned or spontaneous?”

I open my mouth to give the safe, rehearsed answer—We love giving the fans what they want—but Luca beats me to it.

He turns his face toward mine, close enough that his breath brushes my ear. “What do you think, baby?” he murmurs, loud enough for the closest mics to catch.

The room erupts in delighted chaos.

Then he does it.

He leans in and presses a quick, theatrical kiss to my cheek—lips soft, lingering just a second too long for it to be purely playful. His stubble scrapes lightly against my skin. My pulse slams into overdrive. Heat floods my face, and I know the cameras are catching every millisecond of it.

I freeze. Smile. It’s the same tight, controlled smile I’ve worn in a hundred interviews, but inside I’m screaming. Get off me. Don’t touch me. Don’t make this feel real.

The flashes are blinding. Someone yells, “Again! One more!”

Luca laughs—that low, effortless sound—and tightens his arm around me for the encore shot. I tilt my head just enough to look at him, as if I’m in on the joke. As though I’m not fighting the urge to shove him away.

“Perfect,” Tasha calls from the side, giving the thumbs-up. “That’s the money shot.”

The questions keep coming, but my ears are ringing. Luca answers most of them—playful deflections, winks, the full Luca Clark experience. I manage a few clipped responses. We’re grateful for the love. The fans make it all worth it. Safe. Neutral. Controlled.

Finally, Tasha claps her hands. “Alright, that’s time. Thank you, everyone!”

The room starts to break apart. Reporters pack up. Crews unplug lights.

Luca’s arm slips off my shoulders.

Just like that.

No lingering glance. No smirk. No nothing.

He turns and walks away—long strides, hands shoved in his pockets, not even a backward look. Pretending the kiss, the arm, the whole performance meant less than zero to him.

I stand there under the dying lights, cheek still tingling where his mouth was, chest tight with something I really am not giving a name.

Michael bumps my shoulder on his way past. “Nice work, man. You two are killing it.”

I force a nod. Swallow.

Min-ho waits until the others are gone before he steps closer. “You okay?”

I don’t answer right away. I watch Luca disappear through the side door, shoulders relaxed, like he didn’t just set my entire nervous system on fire and then walk away.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Fine.”

Min-ho doesn’t push. He just squeezes my arm once—quiet and steady—and heads out.

I stay a minute longer. Alone with the empty chairs and the ghost of flashes still popping behind my eyes.

I don’t wipe my cheek until no one can see me do it.